


No Such Thing as Angels in Foxholes

by cassieoh_draws (cassieoh), The_Ineffable_Zephyr



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: F/F, Hurt/Comfort, Ineffable Wives | Female Aziraphale/Female Crowley (Good Omens), Mentions of Blood, She/Her Pronouns for Aziraphale (Good Omens), She/Her Pronouns for Crowley (Good Omens), ao3feed ineffablehusbandz, finding hope in the dark, injured soldiers, soft, they are nurses/orderlies, world war II france
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-17 13:01:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29472126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cassieoh/pseuds/cassieoh_draws, https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Ineffable_Zephyr/pseuds/The_Ineffable_Zephyr
Summary: An ineffable wives fic. Aziraphale and Crowley find a moment of comfort with each other during the carnage of World War II France. Melancholy tone with a glimmer of soft light (is that a halo?).
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 14
Kudos: 34





	No Such Thing as Angels in Foxholes

**Author's Note:**

> GO Valentine’s exchange/collab between the lovely Cassieoh, who did the incredible art, and The_Ineffable_Zephyr who did the writing. Cassieoh had the final image in mind and the thread of a story and The_Ineffable_Zephyr fell hard for the softness in the writing of it. Thanks to ngk-they-said for the beta read.

**Northeast France, 1940**

“What are you doing here?” 

Aziraphale held up a hand to her eyes to block the light when Crowley opened the closet door. “I was experiencing my grief in peace,” she said. “With these choir robes.”

“Really?” Crowley’s eyes narrowed, shifting from the oil lamp in her hand—the only light source in the room—to Aziraphale’s squinting face.

Aziraphale sniffed. She was aiming for a sniff that said “put out,” but, what with the extra mucus brought on by crying, she landed somewhere closer to “pathetically trying to hold oneself together.” She stared hard at the crucifix on the wall just past Crowley’s right shoulder. By focusing on the suffering of that poor young man, she managed to regain a tenth of her composure and enough of her righteous tone to retort, “What are _you_ doing here?”

“Got transferred here from Wissenbourg. Last head nurse fled. Wasn’t you, was it?”

“No, no. I’m just an orderly.”

“Doing some…stocking of supplies by the looks of it?”

Aziraphale looked around with a proper amount of embarrassment and started to extricate herself from the mothballed clothing and junk piled in the closet. “Mmm, quite.”

“Rotten gig.”

“It is, rather!” Aziraphale’s voice lifted an octave higher than she intended. She noticed that Crowley did not press her on what she was doing hiding in a closet in a church basement. For that, she was grateful. “Oh, Crowley—erm?”

“Nurse Clair today.”

“Nurse... Clair?” Aziraphale’s French had improved considerably while she had been stationed in this makeshift infirmary. That Crowley had picked a name meaning “light” tickled Aziraphale and made her eyes sparkle momentarily. Her face quickly clouded over. “You know, I did not mean to be wailing in a basement. Not when there’s, well,” she lifted her eyes to the ceiling, “so much to do up there.”

Crowley’s eyes did not follow, but stayed on Aziraphale, taking in the disheveled uniform and the general sagging of her demeanor. The angelic glow that usually bristled pleasantly against Crowley’s occult senses seemed dimmed. 

“It’s bad out there, isn’t it?” Crowley asked, voice soft.

Aziraphale, eyes still on the ceiling as another air raid siren sounded, blinked once and her lips trembled. Then she felt the warm weight of Crowley’s hand over hers. She inhaled sharply but didn’t dare look at Crowley, afraid to break the spell. Blinking rapidly, she looked down and fixed her eyes on her shoes, splattered with mud and blood as they were. 

Ever so slowly their fingers slid together, papery soft, until they were intertwined. 

Aziraphale tried to resume breathing, but her lungs reminded her that she had recently been crying. She took a shaky, phlegmy inhale and gently squeezed Crowley’s hand.

“I know it wasn’t your side.”

“Sorry, angel. It was all them.” She gestured wide, to encompass the many people in Europe and the USSR, as well as Japan. She had seen many wars, but this level of machinery and air power was grimly astonishing in its deadliness.

“I just don’t think I can keep at it. There aren’t enough miracles to save them. There are hundreds of men getting injured every day. Just here in France. It boggles the mind, Crowley. How can She—“

Aziraphale looked up and met golden eyes, glowing with warmth like a hearth. She couldn’t finish that question. Didn’t need to because suddenly Crowley was holding her, pressing Aziraphale’s head into her chest. Murmuring something that Aziraphale couldn’t quite make out. It felt like a hymn. No, like a dirge. And a bit like a lullaby. She let herself be rocked. 

Minutes passed. The tears slipped out until Aziraphale’s throat was dry and Crowley’s front was soaked. Aziraphale sniffled and lifted her head. She knew she should pull away, but she could not bring herself to do it. She felt frozen to the spot. 

Crowley looked down at Aziraphale, her eyes serious and shining. She wiped a tear streak from Aziraphale’s cheek. “Angel, listen, I want you to see something.” 

Aziraphale nodded, but was unable to move on her own. Crowley took Aziraphale’s hand again and led her up the stairs. Aziraphale moved because Crowley’s warmth compelled her. 

At the landing, just before Crowley opened the door to return to the nave, she slid her fingers free. It felt like a gift to each other’s nerve endings, that little frisson of touch, like a blessing just to move atoms across one another so deliberately. 

Then the moment was over and they pushed their way into the infirmary, as saturated with the smell of injured men as always. 

Aziraphale thought she would blanche or cry out. But she watched any lingering softness in Crowley’s demeanor stiffen until she was all business. Her head lifted imperiously and she scanned the room, noting the location of each red-painted oil lantern carried by a nurse. Her posture commanded respect and Aziraphale felt her own mind start to clear as she followed Crowley‘s determined strides down the aisle between the beds. 

Aziraphale kept her eyes trained on the red braid bouncing in front of her, which was moving at such a pace that she could barely keep up, barely register what was happening around her. As they passed other nurses, Crowley barked orders in an authoritative whisper, but did not stop moving. 

Although she was right behind Crowley, Aziraphale couldn’t make out her words. She only heard the moans, the shuffling of bodies, and the din of tense conversations happening all around her. In the darkness of the blackout, the sounds seemed amplified in the high-ceilinged space.

At last, Crowley turned back to her with that look of concern knitting her brow. “Angel, this way,” she said and pressed three fingers to the back of Aziraphale’s elbow.

The touch grounded Aziraphale, allowing her head to surface above the ocean of sound. She let Crowley guide her and focused on that small warmth from her fingertips—as close to a hand hold as they could allow in this situation—until they had wound through the rows of beds and into a far corner of the nave. 

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale whispered. She looked beside her to see that Crowley was glowing faintly, a deep molten halo, much like her eyes, outlining her head. She thought her own halo must be casting a soft white light as well. She couldn’t help it when her chest felt like this: hot and clenched, as though her heart were preparing to burst open at any moment. 

“Look at them.”

The soldier who lay in the bed looked muddy and bedraggled, bandaged from head to chest and with an arm cast in a sling. He was sleeping peacefully. Half crouched on the floor and half on the bed lay another soldier, his uniform cleaner and rumpled. He had fallen asleep in that awkward position with his arm stretched protectively over the injured man. He held the other man’s good hand in a firm grip. Like he’d done everything he could to stay by his side. Like the two couldn’t bear to be apart. Like they would do anything to make it out of this war alive. 

“‘S not all so bad, is it?”

“I suppose there is still love,” Aziraphale said, a bit teary again in spite of herself.

“Now let’s get out of here, angel, I think I’m about to combust,” Crowley whispered and started moving her feet as though dancing a soft shoe routine.

“Oh! Oh dear me. The church! Why Crowley, I—” 

“—don’t say it!” she growled and hot footed towards the exit. 

Outside, they sat in shadow on a bench in the churchyard. Aziraphale pulled down a small healing miracle, surely unnoticed amongst all the rest. Then she leaned her shoulder into Crowley, who returned the reassuring pressure. They breathed together and, in their minds’ eyes, they each recalled the soldiers sleeping like lovers.

**Author's Note:**

> I don’t know if this story coexists with TV canon or is an AU alternate to the Blitz scene or what, but I like it so much I don’t care. Find The_Ineffable_Zephyr on Tumblr @tickety-boo-af and [more of cassieoh's art here!](https://www.instagram.com/cassie_ohpeia/)
> 
> PS: The actual angel in a foxhole is here and she is very cute and honestly very Aziraphale-like: https://www.antpress.org/angel-foxhole-movie/


End file.
